


Ours

by westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Character Study, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-04
Updated: 2008-04-04
Packaged: 2019-05-30 13:32:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15097697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist/pseuds/westwingfanfictioncentral_archivist
Summary: Donna and Margaret can relate to each other.





	Ours

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

When they’re together in a crowd after office hours they always manage to stand out. Maybe it’s that they’re both on the tall side, or maybe it’s that they’re just cleaner. Their hair is always neat, clothes pressed and modest. Two sets of jeweled earrings, two pendant necklaces, two pairs of sheer pantyhose. And two tired faces, but those are nothing new in a bar after all.

They come here after work every few weeks, sort of on an as-needed basis. Assistant to the White House Chief of Staff and Assistant to the Deputy Chief of Staff. Both dedicated heart and soul to their jobs, with varying degrees of guilt about it.

Tonight, for instance, it’s Donna that chooses their booth, drinks a little too quickly, plays a nervous game twisting her napkin as the conversation inevitably wends its way to the most important men in their lives. The only men in their lives, really.

"So Josh isn’t still mad at you, is he?"

Donna takes a swallow of her drink and sighs. "You mean about the...thing?"

"That lawyer. What’s his name?"

"Cliff." Donna tosses a napkin aside in an I-give-up gesture. "No, I don’t think he is. I don’t know."

Margaret’s blue eyes are solemn as ever. She’s older than Donna by maybe five, ten years, but it doesn’t matter because at the same time she’s ageless, a tall, thin, red-headed sentinel stationed without fail at Leo McGarry’s door. She’s an odd sort, Donna thinks, with a distinct set of habits and mannerisms. Donna likes her, but she wonders if she’ll ever really understand her, beyond this one aspect of their lives they have in common.

"Josh hides things well," Margaret observes after a pause, and sips her champagne cocktail. Then she thinks of Christmas, and his bloody, bandaged hand. "To a point."

Donna’s smile is quick and bitter as she nods. Her frustration is evident; sometimes, she thinks, she can feel the physical sensation of her nerves fraying. Stress at her job is tough – problems in her personal life are worse – but that murky area where the two intersect is unplottable and simply infuriating.

"The Cliff situation itself is defused," she sighs finally. "In that I’m not going to be indicted for perjury or anything."

"Perjury?" Margaret’s eyes widen.

Donna hasn’t divulged the particulars to anyone, and she won’t start now. She waves her hand. "It’s really not a big deal. I mean, it could have been bad, but everything’s fine now."

"Well thank goodness for that."

"You know," Donna continues after a moment, "it’s funny. There were potentially serious consequences, very serious consequences, but I never thought it out much further than Josh being mad at me."

"Our worlds do narrow that way," Margaret says with a smile. And Donna smiles too, even as she knows that it’s really nothing to smile about. 

But Margaret’s been at this for many more years, and so she knows even better. She knows exactly what it feels like to make someone else the center of your universe for a living, what it feels like when caring for them becomes your entire life, when worrying about them is second nature — when you live and die by their happiness and comfort and safety, and when you do all of it willingly, when you wouldn’t have it any other way.

"It’s just this awful feeling that I’ve let him down." Donna knocks back the rest of her drink, unladylike, and grimaces. "It’s killing me. All I want is for him to be able to trust me, and now he thinks I’m absolutely incompetent."

"He doesn’t," Margaret insists, quiet and sincere, although she doesn’t know the specifics of what happened.

Then again she doesn’t really have to, because Margaret also knows the men that have these jobs. These men that live in their suits, that define themselves by their work, their esteem in the eyes of their colleagues — they are all so alike. Margaret knows Leo and so by default she knows Josh. And she also knows Donna.

What she doesn’t yet know, however, is if it’s a good idea for Donna to fall in love with Josh. Because that’s where she’s headed, as surely as the sky is blue, and Margaret thinks Donna’s just beginning to sense it in herself. She doesn’t yet know if Josh will break Donna’s heart, or if Donna can survive it.

Margaret was in love with Leo once, but he was married and disinterested and addicted to chemicals, and that made it easier in a way, because she’s still here now, still loving him, just not the same way she used to. Josh, on the other hand, is single. And he’s all fire and passion, aggravating ego and at the same quiet devotion, and before long Donna’s going to be in love with him, absolutely mad about him from his head to his toes. 

It’s so easy to love them, she thinks, these men who wear suits. Seeing them at their best and their worst, sharing it all, supporting them at every turn with an extra set of hands, a watchful pair of eyes, and a heart full of adoration.

"Thanks, Margaret," Donna says in a low voice, and smiles tremulously. "It really does help to do this." She gestures around the bar. Then, hesitant, she adds, "I get scared, sometimes, you know."

"By what?"

"By what I feel when I look at him. Like I’d do...anything." Donna knows she doesn’t have to elaborate, Margaret gets it, but she wants to say the words out loud. "The expressions on his face alone. His smile is...like a drug." She cuts her eyes down to her lap, suddenly self-conscious at her choice of words. "I guess what I mean is, it’s my happiness too. And when he’s not happy—"

"—you want to tear your hair out when you can’t do anything to help," Margaret supplies matter-of-factly.

Donna breathes out, a little relieved. "So it’s normal?"

Shrugging, Margaret replies, "It’s normal for women like us, with men like ours."

"Yes," Donna says absently. "Ours. It gets to feeling like that, doesn’t it?"

"Mm-hmm."

"But they’re not ours."

"No." Margaret watches her face closely. "They’re not. I had to learn that a while back, it was tough."

"And sometimes—it’s crazy, but sometimes you get to wishing they were." She looks self-conscious again. "Right?"

Margaret nods, remembering feeling that pain of separation, night after night, for many long years. It never failed, that unpleasant little jolt when she realized that she and Leo were going home to different places, that there would always be a strict limit to the things they shared once the workday ended.

"Oh, Josh." Donna’s voice is distant, her eyes hovering above Margaret’s shoulder. "What have I gotten myself into here?"

Margaret had intended to warn Donna, alert her to the inevitable so she could better prepare herself, but now it sounds to her as if Donna is already past the point of no return. So after a moment she moves a hand to cover Donna’s, and says all she can say.

"It’s not wrong to love them, Donna; just please don’t let it ruin you."

Quiet settles around them.

"It’s not just love," Donna murmurs after a time. "It’s everything. It’s so much."

"Oh," Margaret replies, "I know."

This is their time and place to share feelings that no one else can know, that no one else would understand. This is when the comforters can take a moment to comfort each other, and be reminded that they’re not alone in what they feel. Tonight is Donna’s night; next time it will more than likely be Margaret who needs this.

Their heads, bent together under the hanging lamp, one red, one gold; their eyes, two watchful sets of blue; their serious faces; their hearts, so full of love and of concern, and so worn out from caring.

When is it our turn? Margaret wonders as they pay and leave and it’s nearing midnight. When do we get someone to take care of us?

~

The End


End file.
